


First Punch

by wheel_pen



Series: Cinder [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Slavery, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3820135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Zemelanikan way of life is rough, and Cinder experiences some discipline from both the guards and his own master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Punch

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things. 
> 
> Technically Cinder is not a slave, but he’s still living under subjugation; inherent in this are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this original work, which was inspired by many different stories.

Anatoli slammed open the door to the guards’ break shack in the courtyard of the castle, then slammed it shut behind himself. He stomped the snow off his boots so hard that the thin windows shook, and when he threw himself down in a chair at the wooden table he nearly wiped every cup and plate on it to the floor. The other guards in the tiny lean-to glanced at each other dubiously over their cups of tea and newspapers.

 

Finally, a small mustachioed guard sitting across the table ventured, “Something wrong, Anatoli?”

 

“That little _govnyuk_!” the larger guard exploded. “I swear by my mother’s thumb that if I catch him screwing around again today I’m going to knock his teeth out!”

 

There was no need for the others to ask whom he was talking about. “Anatoli, Anatoli, get a hold of yourself,” the guard near the stove advised. “You shouldn’t talk like that.”

 

“Once you start talking about something,” the guard with the glasses who was squinting at the crossword puzzle added, “it’s only a short step to actually doing it.”

 

“And that would mean big trouble,” the mustachioed guard finished.

 

“What’s the little American _kozyol_ done, anyway? Today, I mean,” asked the guard near the stove, pouring some steaming water from the kettle into his teacup.

 

“Well, he was out in the yard getting wood for the fire,” Anatoli answered slowly.

 

“ _And_?” The guard near the stove handed the teacup to Anatoli.

 

“And he threw a snowball at me,” the large man admitted, a little sheepishly, blowing on the tea.

 

There was silence for a moment. “He threw a snowball at you?” repeated the guard with the glasses, putting down his crossword puzzle. “For _that_ you’d get yourself banished to the northern forts?”

 

“Or shot in the head?” the mustachioed guard suggested. “Anatoli, I think you need to put this in perspective.”

 

Anatoli slammed his teacup down on the table and ran a thick hand through his snow-matted hair in frustration. “I fought in a _war_ , _chort poberi_! I got shot at! I nearly froze to death marching through the snow-covered pass to Voromov in the middle of the winter!” The guard with the glasses lifted his newspaper up so he could roll his eyes without Anatoli seeing. “I went without food for days! I nearly _died_ from tetanus when I stepped on that rusty nail some f-----g rebel left in the snow! What’s that little _huyesoska_ ever done? I don’t deserve to get hit with a snowball by that--that _proshmandovka_!” His anger vented, Anatoli slumped back in his chair.

 

An awkward silence filled the tiny room. The guard near the stove looked at his watch and announced, “Time to get back, I guess.” Muttering to themselves about the cold, the poor state of tea these days, and the shortness of breaks, the four guards pushed themselves to their feet, fastened their heavy coats, pulled on their furred hats, and left the marginal warmth of the lean-to, taking up their positions around the snow-covered courtyard.

 

**

 

Nanek was getting a little irritated with Yasen today. Normally the American boy was entertaining, and good for practicing his English on, but lately he’d only been causing Nanek trouble. Yasen knew only too well that the head cook’s tyrannical first assistant wouldn’t dare chastise the Shashka’s boy for slacking off in his kitchen duties, so he joked around, snuck off, insulted the man to his face (in English, or even more distressingly, in some of the gutter Zemelanikan he was picking up)—and Nanek couldn’t get it through to him that even though Yasen wouldn’t pay for that kind of behavior, someone else _might_. And that someone might very well be his one friend Nanek. The older man had even seen the boy throwing a snowball at one of the guards—albeit that pompous fat slug Anatoli, who was always going on about the tetanus he got in the war—and there was no way that could end well.

 

Just when Nanek thought he had convinced Yasen to settle down and help him do the dishes, the boy got that look in his eye again, the one that said he was supremely _bored_ with doing dishes—even though he’d barely even touched the dishrag—and wanted to do something “fun.”

 

“Hey, Nanek, let’s go outside,” Yasen suggested eagerly.

 

“I’ve got a better idea,” Nanek replied shortly. “Let’s stay here and get the dishes done first.”

 

Yasen rolled his brown eyes. “Oh, come on! It’s so stuffy in here, I’m about to die! Let’s go outside and get some fresh air.”

 

“We were just outside,” Nanek reminded him, setting a glass down to be dried. “Come on, let’s just get this sinkful done, alright?”

 

“Five minutes!” whined Yasen. “Please?”

 

Nanek sighed in exasperation. “You want to go outside, go ahead,” he told him. “I’m going to stay here and do my work.”

 

“Nanek!” the boy persisted. “Who am I going to talk to outside? Nobody else around here speaks English!”

 

“Look, we’re talking right here,” the older man pointed out, setting a plate down next to the untouched glass. “We can talk and do dishes at the same time.”

 

Yasen sighed petulantly, picked up his dishrag, then threw it back down. “Everything is so _boring_ here,” he pouted. “And it’s so _dark_ all the time.” He nodded at the small window near the door. “Look, it’s practically pitch-black out and it’s not even noon. How much sunlight are we going to get today? Like, half an hour?”

 

Nanek restrained himself from snapping back at the boy. Remember, he’s had a hard life lately, he thought firmly. Remember, he’s not used to the weather and the darkness, remember that usually he’s a lot of fun…

 

“Well, I’m going outside,” Yasen announced, stomping towards the coat rack by the door. “And _you_ have to come with me.”

 

“ _Why_ do I have to come with you, Yasen?” Nanek replied, exasperated.

 

“Because Patrick told you to keep an eye on me,” Yasen told him cheerfully, tugging on his heavy coat. “And if you’re inside, and I’m outside, how can you keep an eye on me?”

 

Nanek closed his eyes, begging himself for patience, and dropped the pot he was scrubbing back into the water. The boy had a point there. But Nanek didn’t think Sergeant Gildea had any idea what kind of trouble he was unleashing when he gave the kitchen worker those orders.

 

**

 

Alright, so it was almost ten-thirty in the morning and the sun hadn’t really decided to make its way over the horizon yet. That was pretty normal when you lived so far above the Arctic Circle. Besides, the courtyard was so well-lit with various torches, lamps, and electric lights that it was _almost_ as bright as day. Nanek didn’t see what the boy was complaining about; you couldn’t change the sunrise, after all, you just had to get used to it.

 

“Are you sure there aren’t any more English books in the library?” Yasen persisted, scuffing at a pile of snow with his boot.

 

Nanek pulled the furred collar of his coat more closely to him and answered testily, “Well, I didn’t see any more. I don’t know, I don’t exactly get to wander around it a lot, you know.”

 

Yasen heaved a frustrated sigh and spun aimlessly around in the courtyard snow. “Why don’t you at least have TV, so I could watch something even if I couldn’t understand it?” he complained rhetorically.

 

“Look, I’m going back inside,” Nanek told him. “I’ve got work to do, and nothing’s going to keep the first assistant from hitting _me_ with his d—n wooden spoon.”

 

“Oh no, Nanek, please, stay out here with me,” Yasen pleaded. “Let’s play a game or something. I’m going to die if I go back into that kitchen!” He looked around frantically for something to amuse them, then bent down and scooped up a handful of wet, packable snow.

 

Nanek immediately shook his head. “No way, I’m not throwing snowballs at anyone! You remember the look that guard, Anatoli, got on his face when you hit him earlier? Too risky!”

 

“Oh, come on, we won’t throw them at _people_ ,” Yasen assured him. “We’ll throw them at… that little building over there. At the doorframe. See who has the best aim.”  


“Absolutely not,” Nanek protested. “That’s the shack where the guards have their tea. I’m not going to bother that.”

 

Yasen stared at him. “The guards have their _tea_ in there? That’s the little guard tea shop?” The teenager started laughing. “Do they have little crumpets and finger sandwiches and lace doilies, too?”

 

Nanek wasn’t exactly sure what all of those terms referred to, but the boy’s tone was definitely mocking. “They’ve got a stove in there, they have hot tea on their breaks. It’s cold being on guard duty,” he replied, with annoyed matter-of-factness.

 

“Whatever,” Yasen responded snidely. He heaved his ball of snow at the shack and it glanced off the corner. “I don’t care about the stupid guards.” Another snowball was launched but went wide, splattering on the roof.

 

“Yasen,” Nanek warned.

 

“There’s probably not even anyone in there,” the boy continued, hurling another handful of snow. This one smacked into the small window.

 

“Yasen!”

 

“What?” Yasen exclaimed in exasperation, turning around to stare at the older man. “What’s the big deal? They’re just snowballs! There’s so much frickin’ snow around here, _everyone_ must throw them!” Rolling his eyes at his friend’s complete lack of enthusiasm, Yasen spun around and hurled his next snowball with all his might at the shack—and caught the guard who was exiting it square in the face.

 

For a moment time seemed to stand still. Then the guard—yes, Nanek realized in horror as he brushed the snow away, it was Anatoli again—started bellowing, a horrible primal sound of rage that Nanek couldn’t even separate into words right away. And then he charged.

 

Nanek’s first thought of escape was the old watchtower on the corner—Anatoli would never fit through the hatch to the second floor—and he took off to his left. When he turned back to check for Yasen, though, he saw the boy wasn’t following him—he had sprinted off at top speed in the _other_ direction. Anatoli immediately changed his trajectory in pursuit, and Nanek found himself impulsively chasing after them, certain that no good could come of this. Hot on his heels were several of the other guards who had heard the commotion.

 

Anatoli might have marched in the army and passed all his guard physicals, but Yasen was younger and more terrified, and he wasn’t carrying so much extra weight, so for a few moments it looked as though the boy was going to outrun him. Yasen flew through the archway into the horse yard—Nanek had no idea where he was going, and wondered if the boy knew himself. Just when the distance was steadily lengthening between him and the guard, the boy looked back—and fell face-first over a snow-covered pile of wood. He scrambled up almost immediately, but Anatoli took heart from the stumble and switched to high gear, roaring down on the boy like a runaway train.

 

Yasen willed his legs to move faster, but the snow was deeper here, gripping his clothes and holding him back. Then something else gripped the back of his coat and spun him around, and his vision was filled with the raging red face of the guard, screaming at him in his foreign tongue. He could hear the other guards yelling, rushing towards them—but the snow slowed them, too, and no one was there to stop Anatoli’s big hand from cracking across Yasen’s face.

 

For a moment the boy felt nothing, which was almost worse because he knew agony was only milliseconds away. Then the messages from his assaulted nerve endings hit his brain, and it felt like the whole side of his face was on fire as he tumbled back into the snow. Tears sprang to his eyes from the sting, but he tried to remember to scramble away in case the guard decided to kick him as well.

 

Anatoli never got to make that decision, however. More yelling started from the stable across the yard, and the boy looked up in amazement to see his master, the Shashka, speeding across the snow like he was walking on water. He didn’t even have his coat on, just his trousers and work shirt, and Yasen realized he must have been grooming his beloved horse Polya in the stable. He looked lithe and powerful and fierce, like a lion or some other wild cat, and for a moment Yasen forgot about his burning cheek as he watched him run, almost in slow motion it seemed.

 

Time crashed back to normal speed when the Shashka reached Anatoli and slammed his fist into his face. The taller, heavier man went down like a stone dropped into a well and he stayed there, as much from the blow as in abject fear for his life.

 

“What the f—k are you doing?!” Oleg screamed at the prostrate guard, ignoring the small crowd that was hesitantly gathering. “You don’t ever f-----g lay a _hand_ on that boy, I don’t care what he’s done, do you understand me, you _kozyol yobanniy_ , _svoloch_ , _govyuk_ , _huyesoska_ —Patrick, give me your gun!”

 

Thinking quickly—something he often had to do around his commanding officer, or he would have lost a lot of good men over the years—Patrick spread his hands to indicate he wasn’t carrying it. Of course, he did have one, but it was hidden under his jacket; Anatoli was d—n lucky that the Shashka had taken his off before going down to the stables—he thought guns bothered Polya—or his brains would be splattered all over the snow by now. Patrick tried to signal to the nearby guards that they should scoop Anatoli up and drag him out of sight while the Shashka was still screaming—before he picked up a poker from the nearby forge, say, and started beating the man with it—but they were just as petrified as the offender. Just when Patrick saw his commander’s eyes start to search for a blunt instrument—and the Sergeant started calculating the risks of trying to calm Oleg down in public—there was a little noise from the side of the yard, and everyone’s attention swung around to the boy who still lay in the snow.

 

His cheeks were red, from a combination of cold, exertion, and the smack he’d taken across the left one, and his mouth was open in sheer awe at the fury he’d witnessed—and not a little bit of delight. Patrick felt his own temper start to rise; this boy had absolutely no idea how tenuous life could be around the castle sometimes, no idea how violent his master could get when the mood struck him, and if a good soldier like Anatoli were killed because of that boy’s pranks—

 

Breathing hard, the Shashka turned away from Anatoli and approached the boy, and Patrick took the opportunity to shake a couple of the guards out of their paralysis, to at least get Anatoli out of the Shashka’s line of sight. Oleg reached down and grabbed the boy’s coat, drawing him somewhat roughly back up to his feet. He said something to him, quietly, and turned his face to look at his injury. Yasen didn’t know exactly how to reply, but he grinned in adoration at his rescuing hero—and then started howling when the Shashka punched him hard in the jaw and dumped him back in the snow.

 

When the Shashka hit Anatoli, those present saw it as sudden, but not unexpected; this, however, drew gasps of surprise from the crowd, who were used to seeing the boy doted upon and indulged. Even Patrick was shocked into stillness for a moment, then came to his senses quickly enough to catch the wailing boy when the Shashka yanked him up and hurled him in the Sergeant’s general direction.

 

“Shut up!” Oleg ordered furiously.

 

“Quiet, boy,” Patrick advised the shaking mess in his arms, and Yasen briefly hushed to gulp some air.

 

Patrick eyed his commander carefully, experiencing the rare and extremely unpleasant feeling of not knowing what Oleg was going to do next. “Get him inside!” Patrick would have liked to hand the boy off to someone else to take care of, and stay with the Shashka to make sure Anatoli didn’t end up hanging by his heels over an open flame, but Oleg was very clear about who, exactly, should take the boy away.

 

“Come on, lad,” Patrick told him with irritation, dragging the teenager through the snow towards the nearest doorway as fast he could. The sooner he could get the brat off his hands, the sooner he could get back to cleaning up the mess the brat had created.

 

Unfortunately Yasen wasn’t going quietly. The farther he got from the scene of the attack, the louder he became. “Oh my G-d, Patrick, he punched me, did you see him? My G-d, I think my jaw is broken, my nose is broken—why did he punch me, Patrick? My G-d, it f-----g _hurts_ …” Patrick yanked the boy into the castle and down the corridors, with servants, guards, and government officials alike staring at them as the boy screamed and carried on.

 

“Would you shut up!” the Sergeant snapped at him, wrenching the boy around a corner.

 

“Patrick, Patrick, my jaw is broken, I know it is,” Yasen gasped, his breath shortening as he started to sob. “It’ll have to be wired shut, I won’t be able to move it—“

 

“Well that will be a g-----n improvement!” Patrick replied angrily, jerking him past the throne room and all of the officials busily toiling therein. Of _course_ the boy couldn’t have staged his little scene at the _back_ of the castle, where the hallways would be _empty_.

 

“Patrick, I don’t know, why did he hit me, I didn’t do anything, I’ve got a concussion, I can’t walk—“ Yasen’s legs gave out momentarily, until Patrick indicated he would drag the boy across the floor by the back of his collar if he needed to, and then miraculously he could stumble along again. The teenager was actually quiet for a few moments—well, quiet except for the hysterical sobbing, of course—and then the Sergeant heard the first words out of his mouth his actually took seriously. “Patrick, I think I’m going to be sick!”

 

The Irishman heaved the boy up against a pillar for a moment, caught him when he started to slide down it, and positioned him with his head facing firmly away. When nothing happened, Patrick growled at him and resumed the frustrated journey down the hallway. “Patrick, I’m going to be sick, I really am!”

 

“Then be sick and get it over with!” the Sergeant ordered, stopping again, and sure enough, this time the boy puked his entire hearty breakfast up over the tiled floor. And then started sobbing even harder.

 

Patrick sighed and ran his hand over his face, suddenly tired although it was still early. He’d never seen such a one for working themselves up. “Clean that up,” he tossed off to a servant as he pulled the boy the last few paces to the sanctuary of his office.

 

Yasen collapsed on the leather couch when released, and Patrick sincerely hoped he wasn’t going to throw up again. He really liked that couch. Dampening a washcloth at the faucet in the attached bathroom, Patrick knelt on the floor and straightened the teenager up as best he could—it was like trying to straighten a half-cooked piece of spaghetti—and wiped his face off. Of course, any time he came close to the left side, the boy let out an ungodly howl.

 

The Sergeant poured out two large brandies from his liquor cabinet and held one up to the boy’s mouth. “Drink it, go on.” Yasen wrinkled his nose in protest. “Drink. It.” The boy tossed the alcohol back and nearly gagged again. Patrick thought about it for a moment, then figured it couldn’t hurt and emptied the second glass into the boy. Then he dug some ice out of the mini-fridge, wrapped it in a clean washcloth, and sat the boy up again.

 

His sobs were at least steady and quieter now, and Patrick gave him a piece of ice to suck on while he examined his jaw in the light from the desk lamp. He poked at a few places, eliciting gasps and flinches instead of wails—a definite improvement—and then pronounced that nothing was broken and there would be no permanent damage. Yasen pressed the icepack to his face like he was clutching a childhood toy and stared at Patrick with his brown eyes spilling over with despairing, slightly intoxicated tears.

 

“He hit me, Patrick,” the boy repeated, as the Sergeant pulled his snowy boots off.

 

“Really,” he replied dryly, then regretted his tone when the boy’s sobs momentarily increased their pace. “Alright, calm down now, lad, you’re alright. Here, let’s get your coat off, it’s warm in here.” Maybe the second brandy had not been a good idea after all.

 

“Why’d he hit me?” Yasen persisted, squirming awkwardly as Patrick removed his heavy coat. “Why’d he hit me, Patrick? I thought he—I thought he—“

 

The boy spun away suddenly, curling up on the couch with his back to the room and the icepack settled on his face. His slender shoulders shook with the sobs he was, at the moment, trying to contain. Patrick draped a blanket over him and tucked it in with a bit more care than he would have shown just a few minutes earlier. The boy was very young, after all, and boys that age were supposed to be reckless and thoughtless, weren’t they? He hadn’t seen the things Patrick or Oleg had seen, he hadn’t grown up the hard way they had. He’d probably never been punched by anyone before in his life, let alone the person whose bed he was sharing.

 

“Yasen.” The boy hiccupped. “Yasen. It’s going to be alright, lad.” His reassurances were not acknowledged, although the Sergeant couldn’t tell if the boy was deliberately ignoring him or if he had just…slipped into a lower state of consciousness.

 

Patrick helped himself to a very large swig of the Irish whiskey tucked at the back of the liquor cabinet. It was next to impossible to obtain in the northern reaches of Siberia, but he felt he needed it. After a few minutes he heard the boy’s breathing even out a bit. Quietly Patrick opened the door to his office and glanced up and down the hall.

 

One of his clerks, Orumov, had apparently been waiting for him to appear. “Sergeant!” he hissed urgently. “What is going on? The whole castle is in an uproar!”

 

“S---e,” Patrick swore. He grabbed the younger man’s arm suddenly and pulled him into the office. “I’ll tell you later,” he decided, closing the door behind them. He kept his voice low and urgent. “You stay here. Keep an eye on the boy.” Patrick inclined his head towards the couch. “Don’t let him leave, and don’t let anyone in to bother him. I’ll post a guard at the door.” Orumov was on the point of asking questions, but he wisely restrained himself. “You wait until you hear from me.” The clerk nodded, confused but not unwilling, and Patrick hurried away.

 

**

 

Oleg insisted that his stable boys be quite young, twelve or thirteen, and as gawky and stumbling as possible. Some people assumed this was due to a scurrilous predilection of their ruler’s and took care to keep their adolescent sons out of his sight; the long hours Oleg was correctly reputed to spend in the stables only confirmed their suspicions. Anyone who actually _worked_ in the stables, however, knew the true cause of this behavior. The Shashka had a theory—which he was not shy about implementing—that horses _liked_ being attended to by awkward youths, that the boys reminded the animals of their own inelegant early foalhoods and thus invoked feelings of affection and sympathy. One of the few horses who seemed to resist this strategy was the Shashka’s own steel grey stallion, Polya, who was groomed and ridden only by the ruler himself.

 

Patrick was not surprised to learn that Oleg had gone back to the stables after the incident in the yard; he knew being in the quiet among the horses had a calming effect on his commander, and besides there was little in the world that could disrupt Oleg’s schedule of visiting with the horse he had had since before the war. The stable boy who confirmed the Shashka’s presence for Patrick before he entered the heated building was a particularly ripe example of Oleg’s employment requirements, with a spot-covered face, squeaky voice, and feet apparently too big for the rest of him. Patrick heard him trip over himself into the snow as he walked by, but shook his head and kept going.

 

Oleg was standing inside Polya’s stall, brushing the large animal meticulously and talking to him in a low voice. To the casual observer, it would appear that the Shashka was more than a bit crazy; but seeing how Polya appeared to respond with whinnies and nickers tended to make one question one’s _own_ sanity. Patrick’s own horse, Aughrim, trotted over to him as he approached and stuck his deep brown head out hopefully.

 

“Sorry, boy,” Patrick told him, rubbing his nose. “Haven’t got any sugar for you today.” He reached out to pet the grey stallion nearby. “And how are you today, Master Polya?” The Irishman yanked his hand away just in time as the ill-tempered beast tried to bite him.

 

“Polya, Polya,” Oleg chastised lightly, barely glancing up. “That’s no way to treat our friend.” Polya harrumphed disdainfully.

 

Patrick took off his coat and laid it over the gate to Aughrim’s stall; Oleg kept the stables at a better temperature than much of the castle. The bay horse eagerly dug his nose into the pockets, in case his rider had been, perhaps, _teasing_ him earlier about not having any sugar. Patrick watched his commander brush his horse for a few moments; his attitude seemed unusually subdued—there was no question about _why_ , of course, but the Sergeant had to wait until Oleg brought it up.

 

“Polya is very anxious today,” Oleg commented. “There’s too much tension in the air.” Patrick raised an eyebrow at that. The imperious animal seemed no more high-strung today than yesterday, at least to him. “We were thinking about going up north, to the seashore,” he continued quietly, “to go riding on the beach.”

 

“Perhaps you’d like to wait until it’s not covered in snow, sir,” Patrick suggested delicately.

 

“Polya likes the snow,” Oleg replied dismissively. “You remember the trek to Voromov, don’t you, Polya?” he continued fondly, ruffling the horse’s mane. “They said the road was impassable and the town would fall to the rebels, but we showed them otherwise, didn’t we?” The horse whinnied in agreement.

 

“Unfortunately, not too many of the soldiers were as…determined as you and Polya, sir,” Patrick added carefully. “As I recall.” The snow-covered path to Voromov had been littered with the corpses of men and horses who lacked Oleg’s supernatural ability to withstand the Siberian winter.

 

The Shashka shrugged. “That’s a war for you.” The snow-covered path _away_ from Voromov had also been littered with corpses, of the fleeing rebels who hadn’t had time to plunder the industrial village for supplies.

 

They were quiet for a few minutes, with only the soft sounds of rustling hay, sighing horses, and the brush across Polya’s back. Finally Oleg asked, “Is he alright?”

 

“Oh, he’s just fine, sir,” Patrick assured him. “A couple of brandies and an icepack, and he was down for a nap.”

 

“Nothing’s broken?”

 

“Not at all, sir.”

 

Oleg seemed somewhat unconvinced. “I could hear him screaming all the way into the castle.”

 

“Teenage boys, sir,” Patrick insisted. “They over-dramatize everything.”

 

“I don’t want him to be a spoiled brat who thinks no one’s going to discipline him,” Oleg told him firmly, brushing Polya with a bit more force.

 

“I think that misconception has been cleared up, sir.”

 

“ _Ebat_ ,” Oleg swore suddenly, hurling the brush hard against the wall. Patrick straightened quickly as Polya and the rest of the startled horses did their best to get out of the way. “He’s mad at me, isn’t he?”

 

“Sir—“

 

“That spoiled, coddled, lazy little American—“

 

“Sir!”

 

“What?” Oleg snapped.

 

“Sir,” Patrick began, “he’s a spoiled, coddled, lazy little American who probably never had to do a day—or a night—of work in his life. But he’s a good lad, he’ll get used to the way things are done here.” Oleg growled something rude and pessimistic. “Besides, he likes you, sir.”

 

This piqued his commander’s interest. “You think so?”

 

Patrick nodded. “I think the weather’s probably a bit difficult for him, though,” he theorized, trying to sound casual. “The short days and all.” Oleg picked up a different comb and coaxed Polya back to him, his mood lighter. “You know, they have those special light bulbs, that are like sunlight—“

 

“I hate those,” Oleg interjected. “They’re too bright.”

 

“—because the lack of sunlight can make some people a bit… skittish and moody,” Patrick finished.

 

Oleg rolled his eyes. “What rot. We’re not _plants_ , we don’t _need_ sunlight.”

 

Patrick tried to evoke a situation his commander would be more empathetic to. “Well, it’s like those colts that hit their first winter and go a bit mad, sir,” he pointed out. “They just don’t know what to do when it’s dark all the time.”

 

Patrick could see Oleg considering this hypothesis…then rejecting it. “The colts get over it,” he reasoned. “The boy will get used to the way things are here, like you said.”

 

The Sergeant avoided sighing. Well, at least no one could say he hadn’t tried. He picked his coat back up. “Well, I suppose that’s true, sir,” he agreed. “I wouldn’t expect a warm reception from him tonight, though.”

 

“Ha!” Oleg responded flippantly. “We’ll see who gets a ‘warm reception’ tonight.” Patrick was glad to see his commander was back in his proper humor.

 

“If you don’t need me, sir—“

 

“No, go ahead,” Oleg allowed. “Thank you, Patrick.”

 

“Thank you, sir.” Now to attend to a couple _other_ matters of some importance…

 

**

 

When Patrick stepped back out into the yard he saw that what little sunlight had been present earlier was being swallowed up by a puffy grey cloud. Pretty soon it would start to snow, he decided. He just hoped it wasn’t a blizzard that shut the whole city down. The Sergeant paused to glance around the yard, at the various servants and guards hurrying about on their errands, eager to get back inside. After a moment he spotted his mark: a youthful guard, barely older than Yasen actually, a farm boy from the northern provinces who was a crack shot despite his steep learning curve. He would do.

 

Patrick strolled casually over to the lad, who had snuck a few feet away from his post towards the warmth of the smithy’s forge. “Bit chilly for you, Petroslav?” the Irishman began congenially.

 

The boy jumped nearly a foot just from being startled, then did his best gawky stable boy impression in his panic to get back to the exact spot he was assigned to stand. The big Irishman was leaning casually against the stone wall just in his way, however. “No, no, sir, not at all,” Petroslav insisted, straightening to attention.

 

“At ease, lad,” Patrick told him, narrowly avoiding rolling his eyes. Technically speaking, a private in the Castle Guard was not outranked by a sergeant in the army; but then again, Patrick was, as he liked to think of himself, a very _special_ kind of sergeant. The kind that _officers_ called “sir,” if they were smart.

 

To reinforce his privileged position for the boy, Patrick pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the inside of his coat, along with a box of matches. The young private’s eyes widened just a fraction—not a month earlier, when he had been indoctrinated into the Castle Guard, he would have been _very sternly warned_ that the Shashka was not a big fan of smoking and had, in fact, been known to take some rather rash actions when he came upon people smoking. Since _everyone_ in Zemelanika smoked, to most it was just another one of their ruler’s peculiarities. To people who actually worked in and around the Royal Castle, however, it made indulging in their habit very risky. More risky than it normally would be, that is.

 

The Irishman lit one of the cigarettes, carefully shielding the flame from the growing wind, then offered the box to the guard. Petroslav declined nervously. “Oh, come on, lad,” Patrick insisted lightly. “No one’s going to bother us.” Finally the lad took one, grateful but also glancing around the yard to see who might be watching. The Sergeant lit the boy’s cigarette, then let him take a few free puffs to relax before he continued.

 

“You here for the ruckus earlier?” Patrick asked casually.

 

“Oh, yes, sir,” Petroslav replied, shaking his head in amazement. “That was something!”

 

“First time you ever saw the Shashka lose his temper?”

 

The boy took a deep breath and nodded. “I mean, I’d _heard_ stories from other people, sir,” he confided, “but that was the first time I’d _seen_ it myself. Wow, he just took Anatoli _down_ , didn’t he, sir?” Patrick nodded encouragingly. “And then his—the boy, well… Was he hurt bad, Sergeant?”

 

“No, not at all,” Patrick assured him. “Screamed like he was gettin’ killed, though, didn’t he?” Petroslav nodded and smiled a little, sucking on his contraband cigarette. Patrick leaned in and lowered his voice. “So did you see what happened to Anatoli afterwards?”

 

For a moment the young guard almost fell for it, then he sharpened up a bit. “Don’t you know already, sir?” he asked in confusion. “I thought you knew everything.”

 

This time Patrick _did_ roll his eyes. Obviously the boy hadn’t been around long enough to see one of _his_ lost tempers, or he’d keep his cheek to himself. “The reason I know everything,” the Sergeant replied sharply, “is because lads like you keep me informed. So _inform_ me, Private.”

 

Petroslav straightened up his posture a bit, which had gotten rather too casual. “Yes, sir,” he answered quickly. “Well, um, Anatoli was on the ground, and you had just taken the boy away, and everything was so still and quiet, like-like the world had stopped spinning.”

 

“I don’t need the poetry, Petroslav,” Patrick pointed out. “Just the facts.”

 

“Yes, sir. Um, well, anyway, the Shashka came over to Anatoli, and held out his hand, and said something like, ‘Come on, get up.’” The Irishman nodded. “And he had to say it several times, because Anatoli just wasn’t going to move for anything. But finally, Anatoli takes his hand, and the Shashka helps him up. And we’re all standing there, with _no_ idea what’s going to happen next.” Patrick nodded again—he knew that feeling. “And the Shashka says, ‘You’re Anatoli, right?’ And Anatoli nods. And the Shashka says, ‘Anatoli, I remember you, you were in the march to Voromov.’ And that’s true, sir, because I’ve heard Anatoli talk about that march himself.”

 

“You and everyone else who’s ever been in earshot of Anatoli,” Patrick commented, slightly impatient.

 

The young guard snickered conspiratorially. “I guess that’s true, sir. So anyway, the Shashka says, ‘Anatoli, you were in the march to Voromov, you marched through the snow-covered pass to free the town from the rebels. If you can do that, you can’t let a spoiled little boy bother you so much.’” Patrick thought that one over. It was an unusually even-tempered response from his commander.

 

“Are you sure you’re telling this right?” he asked Petroslav suspiciously.

 

“Oh, I swear, sir!” the guard assured him, looking shocked that his veracity would be in doubt. “You can ask any of the others!”

 

“I will,” Patrick told him. “Go on.”

 

“Yes, sir. So then the Shashka looks at all of us and he says, ‘I thought I made it very clear that no one was to lay a hand on the boy. Is that understood?’ And of course we all said, ‘Yes, sir!’ And then he said, ‘Good. Back to work.’”

 

“’Back to work’?” Patrick asked in disbelief. “That’s it?”

 

“Well, then he headed back to the stable, sir,” Petroslav finished. “Oh, but just before he went inside, he turned back and said, ‘And if you do it again, I’ll blow your head off.’”

 

That sounded more like the Oleg he knew. “Where’s Anatoli now?”

 

“He’s back at his post, sir,” Petroslav said, leaning around Patrick a bit. “You can almost see him, over by the gate.”

 

“And have you seen Captain Grigorovitch today?”

 

“Yes, sir, he was over talking to Anatoli not ten minutes after it was all over,” Petroslav reported dutifully. “The Captain came by here, and he wanted to talk to _you_ , sir, but he couldn’t find you. He seemed really mad.”

 

The Captain of the Castle Guard? Mad that one of his men had been assaulted in the middle of the yard? Who would have thought? Patrick figured he’d probably find the loyal, capable, but sometimes _intense_ Captain breathing down the neck of the poor guard who’d been stationed outside the Sergeant’s door. Yet another person Patrick would have to calm down. And he had a feeling Grigorovitch would not be soothed by brandy or a trip to the beach.

 

Patrick finished his cigarette and dropped it in the snow. “Alright, lad.” He pulled the collar of his coat up—the wind was really beginning to pick up. They might get a blizzard after all. “Watch the weather now—go to your post inside if it gets bad.” Petroslav nodded gloomily and looked up at the darkening sky. Patrick started to turn away, then looked back at the guard and yanked the burning cigarette out of his mouth, flicking it into a snow drift. “I wouldn’t let the Shashka catch you smoking in the castle, if I were you, lad,” he added to the startled guard, before heading back to the stable. He couldn’t have the ruler of Zemelanika waiting out a blizzard in the barn, after all—even if he would be perfectly happy to do so.

 

**

 

He was cold, and slightly nauseous, with a throbbing pain in his head, and the room was completely dark—but not silent. There was a horrible howling noise, like a beast in the distance coming ever closer. Maybe he was just having a bad dream—dreaming that he was injured and sick, with a vicious creature bearing down on him. He was definitely cold, though. Suddenly there was another kind of noise, doors opening and closing, people moving about, talking in incomprehensible voices, then a light was thrust into his eyes and he mumbled his protest as he tried to curl away. “ _Zevdeya, malchik!_ ” Wake up, boy—he knew that voice, and he remembered when he had last heard it.

 

The teenager jerked away, forcing his eyes open into the heavy shadows of the Shashka’s bedroom. He didn’t remember coming up here—someone must have brought him. The Shashka grabbed him and hauled him to his knees on the bed as Yasen squirmed. “Let go of me!” he insisted crossly.

 

His master set the oil lamp—oil lamp?—he was carrying on the nightstand and pulled the boy closer to it, examining his face critically. He seemed to judge that Yasen would be alright, and as soon as he was let go the boy scrambled to the far corner of the bed, eyeing his master warily.

 

The movement of the servants in the room soon drew his attention, however. They were pulling heavy curtains or blankets across all the walls, even the parts without windows. And the howling seemed to be muffled.

 

“What’s going on?” Yasen demanded suspiciously. He noticed his master was wearing his army jacket over a lighter coat and his work shirt—an unusual number of layers for him to have on indoors.

 

“ _Snezhnaya burya_ ,” the Shashka answered, gesturing towards the window.

 

The boy turned but saw only the wall of thick black fabric. “What?” he asked in frustration. “What’s going on? Why are they covering the windows?”

 

The Shashka gave an order to the servant at the window, and the man hesitated only a fraction of a second before he set about undoing all the work he’d just done. He pulled the heavy curtain back again and opened the wooden shutters, letting a weak trail of light back into the room. Yasen stood and peered at the leaded glass, wondering why he couldn’t see the trees in the orchard beyond. The howling was louder now, and he realized it was the wind, whipping snow past the walls so thickly he couldn’t see anything through it.

 

“It’s a blizzard,” Yasen pointed out, slightly alarmed. The servant began redoing his work to cover the window. “It’s a blizzard!” He turned back towards the bed and noticed the Shashka had settled himself on it comfortably.

 

“ _Snezhnaya burya_ ,” he repeated, nodding.

 

Yasen glanced at the fire in the hearth that seemed so small for such a large room. He rubbed his arms, colder than usual, and tried to turn the ceiling lights on, but after flipping the switch several times without success, he declared, “The electricity’s out!” Again the Shashka nodded, apparently unsurprised. “But-but the blizzard! We’ll freeze to death, without power!” Yasen could feel the chill creeping into his bones even now. He didn’t know how this castle was set up, but it was icy on a good day—battered by the wind, without the supplemental electric heat, surely they wouldn’t last long.

 

His master shook his head and said something that countered this fear, seemingly without concern, then indicated the servants covering the windows and walls. Perhaps the coverings would help keep the heat in?

 

The Shashka watched him curiously, unnervingly, and all the boy could think of were those silver grey eyes cold with fury, ready to hit him and toss him aside in the snow. He wanted nothing more than to be away from that gaze, so he gave the bed a wide berth and hurried into the bathroom. There was an oil lamp lit in there, too, near the toilet—the important part—leaving the rest of the large room in shadow. The hard tile offered no warmth to the boy’s stocking feet—someone had removed his boots before putting him to bed, as well—and he shivered, wondering how long he could stall in there. Where was Patrick? Maybe Patrick could explain things to him. The left side of his face ached, and Yasen decided he was glad he couldn’t turn on proper lights so he wouldn’t have to see how horrible he looked in the large mirrors.

 

When Yasen finally couldn’t find anything else to do in the dark, cold, echoing bathroom, he peeked hesitantly out the door, hoping perhaps his master had gotten bored and left. Nope, he was still stretched out on the bed, reading a book by the lamplight. The room had been transformed, however. Dark curtains and tapestries covered all the walls, even the inside ones, hiding the doors to the office and the closet. Fabric had been stretched across the ceiling, too, lowering it to keep more of the heat from the fireplace in. Perhaps, Yasen thought, it _was_ a little bit warmer now, at least compared to the bathroom.

 

The cold drove him out of the smaller room and over to the fireplace, where he busied himself for several minutes warming his hands and feet. The whole time he knew his master was sitting on the bed, watching him, and Yasen knew it wouldn’t be long before the Shashka became impatient and—

 

“ _Malchik_.” Slowly Yasen straightened up and turned around, keeping his eyes on his master’s boots, the furniture, anything but those eyes. The Shashka gestured for the boy to come closer, so Yasen drifted towards him, dragging his feet, until he reached the bedpost and stopped to lean on it.

 

The Shashka sat up, dropping his feet over the side of the bed, and Yasen immediately moved to the other bedpost, the one farther away. His master sighed and leaned back on the bed. Well, what did he expect, Yasen thought angrily. The boy certainly wasn’t going to go running to the older man’s arms after being assaulted by him just a few hours earlier—was it hours, even? Yasen had no idea what time it was.

 

“ _Malchik_ —“

 

“You hit me,” Yasen interrupted, surprising them both.

 

After a moment, the Shashka replied, his answer incomprehensible to the boy. Yasen didn’t think it was, “I’m so sorry, I’ll never do it again,” though.

 

“I didn’t think you would—You can’t—“ Yasen wasn’t sure what he was trying to say. “You’re not supposed to hit _me_ ,” he finally sputtered, angry at the tears he felt stinging his eyes. “The other week, when I was in the Throne Room”—when his master was being _nice_ to him, taking care of him when he was sick—“I saw those other people, and you can be— _mean_ to them, they were breaking laws and-and being disrespectful and—“ He paused to sniff a bit. “But I just try to do what you _want_! And I thought you _liked_ me… G-d, that sounds so _stupid_!” The boy whirled away from the bed, looking at the blank black wall where the window would have been— _everything_ was black and blank, everywhere he looked.

 

The Shashka began to speak in a slightly alarmed tone, as if he were telling Cinder to calm down but wasn’t sure it was working.

 

“G-d, I _hate_ it here!” the boy yelled suddenly, and the older man was off the bed in an instant, rounding the foot towards him. “Everything is so _cold_ and _dark_ and I don’t know what anyone is saying and there’s nothing to do and—“ Yasen was crying by now, feeling miserable and sick and cold, his face aching too much to even wipe the tears off that side, and he knew he couldn’t stay on his feet much longer. “—and I just want to go _home_ ,” he finished, before breaking into fresh sobs.

 

He was about to drop to the floor when his master caught him. The boy fought him for a moment, but the other man was talking in such a soothing tone of voice, and he was so warm, and just last night, like every other night for the past few weeks, hadn’t they been curled up together contentedly? Still, last night seemed years ago… “Let go of me,” Yasen protested, but only weakly. His master was a lot stronger than he was, anyway.

 

The Shashka was telling him something comforting now, pulling the boy in close. Oleg yanked the blankets back on the bed and maneuvered the boy under them; he’d started to shiver, and his master lost no time kicking off his boots and dropping his coat so he could crawl in with him.

 

Oleg had to be careful to avoid the bruised side of the boy’s face, but he managed to find a few uninjured places to nuzzle and rub—for warmth and comfort only, of course, because he had a feeling that the boy was absolutely _not_ in the mood for anything else. Honestly… Patrick was right about the lad being overdramatic. Who else would take a _significant_ but not unusual—for Oleg, anyway—disciplinary action and turn it into the end of the world? Oleg knew _he_ wouldn’t even be alive today if he’d thrown this kind of a fit every time his father or a commanding officer had laid down the law. Of course, thinking of his father’s version of the law just made Oleg feel all the more protective towards the boy; he wouldn’t want to subject him to _that_ kind of routine, even if it _would_ force some discipline into him…eventually. “Shh, you’ll be alright, go to sleep…”


End file.
